the platitudes of willful resemblance

the wife is worried - a little sentimental drivel in the
opening of the second movement

I am a sentry
for our collective heartbreak

I’ve been careful

I’ve not been this inebriated 
in greater than a vicennium  
and the last in forgotten bars of angels

it’s the 
secrets, you know. 

the
medications, you know. 

two bottles, you know. 

I held it together with white knuckle intensity
a white knuckle sobriety 
a white knuckle stability

but my confidants know a different me
a stain on new growth flesh
and new brain synapses 
new brain cerebrovascular incident
and fresh heartbreak
over new lines and forgotten strophes

and you,
this love to you - this damaged and broken 

purple prose to you
this endless sadness in invincible summer
to you —
whether you accept or withdraw
whether I’ve wounded myself
                       in your knowledge or presence - 
trying to grip 
a shattering narrative with elusive dominion
whether I’ve wounded you without knowledge
or not

but
broken hearts know no further atonement 
- which is grace
the brokenhearted know the taste of iron 
		on their teeth and wine stained lips
- which is grace
today I know the relative smoothness of 
		1200 ml of whiskey
		in glass after glass
		and cubes of ice
		melted away - 
 which is grace

you:
salt of the earth, hero of these poems
your are not ostentatious by any regard
you are not gauche
to you I apologize for the fragility of my nature
the unique patchwork of a sui generis 
a blinding color discernment of this natural 
world
and know our place bravely


now finally:
naming is a kind of violence
an unconscious nomenclature
used to strip wonder of its humanity
unadorned beauty
but

I don’t traffic in tragedy 
broken chainsaws
or felled trees